


Blood Like Ink

by Hsuany



Series: Creatures Like Us [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Curses, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Magic, actual wolf!Peter, best frenemies, snark battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:06:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hsuany/pseuds/Hsuany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someday, this will all be retroactively hilarious, Stiles consoles himself</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Like Ink

 

At the end of May, Stiles walks across the BHHS auditorium stage and receives his high school diploma. He holds it in his left hand because the sutures in his right hand are still raw.

He’s the only one who laughs at the joke that Lydia slips into her otherwise perfunctory valedictorian speech. He makes a thumbs-up in his lap and watches the corners of her mouth curl ever so slightly.

Stiles stands with his graduating class and tosses his cap as high as he can manage, a hundred cameras all clamoring for this meticulously staged moment of youthful jubilation.

Mrs. McCall takes a photo of him and Scott in their gowns, play fighting, wielding their rolled up diplomas as swords. Stiles sets the picture as his phone wallpaper; it’s the last thing he does before he leaves Beacon Hills.

“You’d better skype me,” Scott makes him promise.

“You’d better _answer_ when I skype you.” Stiles feels the need to remind Scott that despite his demanding schedule as Scott McCall: True Alpha Defender, it’s still no excuse to ignore skype calls from your best bro for dumb reasons like gnomes.

“They were _cannibal_ gnomes, Stiles, not the funny lawn kind.”

“No excuse, dude.”

Scott makes the face, the face like he’s maybe about to cry. “I’m going to miss you,” Scott says, and Stiles _does_ cry, because he never has to pretend to be a tough guy in front of Scott.

He packs eighteen years of his life into the back of the Jeep, his father takes two weeks off work, and they drive from California to Massachusetts. The resilient blue devil surprises them both by breaking down just the once, in Nebraska.

His father has been planning a cross-country road trip since Stiles was still gluing pasta to newspaper and calling it art. The trip was supposed to be the three of them in a rented camper, no GPS, just penciled in lines on paper maps, stopping at National Parks, county fairs, sniffing out hidden tourist oddities of middle-America, eating at all the famous barbecue dives along Route 66. Left turn at St. Louis and straight on into Graceland. His mother really wanted to go to Graceland. They never did get the route finalized in time.

Stiles and his father don’t stop much. No sight-seeing; just motel, diner, motel, rest station. When it’s not his turn to drive, Stiles has his headphones on, large clunky ones that he bought because he thought they made him look cool, like a DJ. The sound quality is total shit.

His father finally brings it up inside a roadside breakfast joint, where they are squeezed into a greasy booth with seats that smell like gasoline.

“Are you okay?” his father asks.

“I’m a little concerned that there might be a bedbug infestation in my hair, but other than that,” Stiles dumps ketchup onto his omelet, “I’m perfectly fine, dad.”

“If you don’t want to talk about it, we won’t.” His father stirs creamer into his coffee mug. “But I can recognize heartbreak when I see it, kid.”

Stiles looks up, stunned, and is suddenly certain that his father knows about it, knows _everything_. He steels himself for impact.

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Lydia,” the Sheriff says softly.

…Lydia. Right.

He lets out a breath that he hopes will be interpreted as resignation and not relief. She’s been a constant fixture in the Stilinski house since Junior year, it’s a perfectly sound assumption.

“Oh well,” Stiles shrugs and slices the omelet in half with his fork, “you know what they say about first loves.”

+

His hand is healed by the time Fall term starts, enough that he can type without the stinging in his palm. And he types and he types, pages of notes, project outlines, essay drafts. Caffeine and Adderall fueled all-nighters are spent pouring over coursework and assignments; no bestiaries, no ‘borrowed’ crime scene photos, no countdowns to world destruction.

He calls Scott and chatters at him in a continuous stream. College is amazing. Boston is amazing. The people are smart and funny and nerdy and great, and there’s improv clubs, poetry slams, chess tournaments in Harvard Square, the Mets at Fenway Park, and those hilarious Duck Tours, Scott, did you know those cars go in the water, they’re _amphibious_ cars. And the parties, man, the parties.

“That’s so awesome, Stiles.”

Scott sounds exhausted, and Stiles feels the heavy club of guilt.

“How are things in good ol’ Beacon?”

“Oh, you know,” Scott mulls, “Still a breeding ground of disasters. The dire wolf pack finally cleared out.”

“Thank god. If I have to see one more horse-sized canine...”

“Remember when we thought dire wolves only lived in Westeros?”

“Remember when we thought mermaids were playboy models in seashell bikinis?”

It feels so good to laugh together.

“Allison’s busy building her Alliance, she went to Oregon to meet up with the hunter groups to draw up new perimeters. Isaac’s trying to con me into buying a new bike, he keeps changing my screen saver to hot babes straddling Harleys. I know he just wants to score the old one off me. And, uh, I meant to tell you this last week, Derek is—”

Stiles stops him. “Sorry,” he’s not angry, not really, not anymore, “I don’t really care.”

“Oh,” Scott says, “okay.” He drops the subject. “Are you ...still having sleep problems?”

Stiles opens his hand and looks down at the horizontal line of pink scar tissue. “I’m moving out of the dorms. My roommate’s told me in so many words that he doesn’t appreciate all the hyperventilating and shouting. Or at least that’s what I assume he means when he throws things at my face from across the room and yells _wake the fuck up_.”

Scott gives him a few more sleep remedies from Deaton. Stiles doesn’t tell Scott that he’s already tried them all. He can’t stop dreaming about being chased through the dark by things he can’t see.

+

The weight of his heart in his chest is constant, moving between a dull ache to a thudding strain to a suffocating crush. Some days when he’s sitting through long lectures, he feels as if there’s someone watching him from a distance. When he turns to look out the window, there’s never anyone there.

He tries not to think about the things he left behind. He goes to class. He goes to parties. He makes friends. The amount of contact numbers in his phone reaches triple digits. Nobody believes him when he says he was supremely unpopular in high school.

In October, just as the temperature plummets more dramatically than his west coast sensibilities could anticipate, Stiles meets a girl. Her name is Libby; she’s got a loud laugh, a waning southern accent, and makes a mean macchiato. Stiles wants to take her back to his tiny studio and have movie marathons on his futon while they feed each other cake.

“So what do you do when you’re not busy providing the student body with delicious energy boosting beverages?” Stiles asks her.

“Humanoid Robotics Group at the AI Lab,” Libby says. “I’m developing personality simulators and advanced brain architecture for socially intelligent robots.”

“That is the coolest fucking thing anyone’s ever said to me,” Stiles says. “I haven’t even declared my major yet.”

“I’d be happy to tell you all about it Stilinski,” she says with a wink, then points over his shoulder. “But you’re holding up the line.”

Stiles looks behind him at the long row of irritated, caffeine deprived faces.

“Oops, sorry.” He moves to the side and lets the next person up to the register. “What time do you get off work?”

“In four hours,” Libby tells him, and turns her smile to the customer. Stiles gets back in line to buy another coffee and a muffin.

Four hours later, they are debating the scientific merit of a robot apocalypse as Libby sweeps the floors and refills the napkin dispensers. Somewhere between Skynet and transhumanism, Stiles feels that familiar phantom chill at the back of his neck again, and he turns to look out the cafe window.

The moon is high, silver and full. Across the street, amidst the crowded shapes and shadows of moving pedestrians, Stiles sees a pair of glowing eyes.

Red.

Alpha red.

He surges to his feet, chair flying back, body flinging itself into a defensive position. When he looks again, the red eyes are gone.

“Oh my god,” beside him, Libby’s clutching the broom to her chest and blinking in shock, “Stiles, are you okay?!”

“Yeah, I… sorry.” Stiles rubs at his eyes and shakes his head. “I thought I saw… sorry.”

“What did you see?” She frowns.

Stiles shakes his head again. “I haven’t been getting good sleep and I’m on this new medication, it’s making me a little… jumpy.”

Her face is tight with worry, so Stiles does what he does best. He deflects. He tells nonsensical anecdotes. He makes funny faces and flings his limbs and rambles at her until she forgets the strange outburst she just witnessed. He helps her lock up the store and drives her back to her dorm, walks her right up to the door.

“Come with me to the lab on Saturday,” Libby tells him, smile half hidden by her scarf, “I’ll introduce you to some of our robots. Promise they won’t try to terminate you. And if they do, I can always disable their sensory protocols and override the microprocessor.”

“You are _so_ cool,” Stiles sighs, admiration in his smile.

The kiss is quick and chaste with a soft bump of noses. They share a giggle, exchange clumsy good-byes, and Stiles walks back to his car in the parking deck with a bounce in his step, whistling as he climbs into the jeep, punch-drunk on the the warm press of Libby’s mouth and the thrill of a promising weekend.

“You’re right, you know,” a voice says from the back seat as he’s about to turn the ignition.

Stiles freezes for only a few seconds before pulling his knife and throwing his arm back. A clawed hand catches his wrist and stops his blow short, the dagger two inches away from landing.

“Creating artificial intelligence is a foolish endeavor.” Peter Hale tilts his head and eyes the blade in his face. “Cybernetic revolt would be inevitable.”

“I _knew_ it,” Stiles snarls through grit teeth, struggling to pull his arm from Peter’s grip. “ _You’ve_ been following me, I _knew_ I wasn’t crazy!”

“Only for a few days.” Peter’s face is cast in shadow, but his eyes burn crimson. “It’s nice to see you too, Stiles.”

“Let. Go.”

In response to that demand, Peter’s hold grows tighter until Stiles’ fingers uncurl and the dagger drops to the floor of the jeep. Then, with a smile, Peter releases him. Stiles snatches his arm back, wincing as he cradles his wrist. “Asshole.”

“Congratulations on your collegiate success,” Peter says, mockingly congenial. “MIT, how prestigious.”

“Congratulations on still being a gigantic blotch of bird shit on my windshield of life,” Stiles snaps back, every cell and fiber vibrating anxiously.

The last time he saw Peter Hale was well over a year ago, when Scott and Derek finally threw the conniving bastard out of Beacon Hills. Stiles was standing behind Scott, shouting Lion King quotes at Peter’s retreating back — _run away, Scar, run away and never return!_

“That’s not nice,” Peter tsks.

“If I seem a bit on edge it’s probably because I’m not the biggest fan of the you, me, parking garage combination.” Stiles narrows his eyes. He knows what’s coming. “What the hell are you doing here and what do you want from me?”

“Now that you mentioned it, this _is_ a tad familiar, isn’t it?” Peter taps a claw against his chin. “I have a little problem that I was hoping you could help me with.”

“No.”

“I’ll make it worth your time.”

“ _Fuck_ no.”

“Well, if you’re not going to appreciate my manners,” the car seat creaks as Peter moves, “I guess I’ll just have to pay your pretty little girlfriend a visit. I hear she makes great coffee.”

“Don’t you dare you son of a bitch!”

Peter unlatches the back of the jeep.

“Okay, _okay_ , I’ll do it! Sit down!” Stiles shouts, panic strangling his voice, and suddenly he’s sixteen again on the lacrosse field, Lydia’s body lying below, Peter’s bloody smile above.

“Oh Stiles,” Peter turns, the lines around his eyes crinkling, “I knew I could count on you.”

+

Stiles takes the most convoluted route back to his building in hopes that he can bide himself enough time to formulate a plan or five. Out of his peripherals he can see the smug curve of Peter’s lips and he wrings the steering wheel until it creaks.

Peter props his elbow up against the passenger seat window and settles comfortably. “After my departure from Beacon Hills—”

“You mean your _banishment,_ ” Stiles interjects, because it’s important to make the distinction between fantasy and reality when speaking to the delusional.

Peter carries on blithely, “—I decided that having spent six years staring at beige wallpaper I should get out and see the country.”

“Please skip the spiritual journey of self discovery and get to the point of this story.”

“The _point_ is, I’ve acquired some unwanted attention,” Peter sighs.

“What a plot twist,” Stiles deadpans.

“There’s a rather unsavory individual who has been, for lack of a better term, hunting me across New England, and I’ve found myself unwittingly confined to this area. Pesky little barrier spell, not unlike a mountain ash barrier except much, much larger.”

Stiles digests this while they’re stopped at an intersection, then accelerates into a sharp turn when the light goes green, satisfied at the displeased grunt Peter lets out when his shoulder is thrown into the car door.

“Don’t you know by now not to piss off emissaries?” Stiles asks. “Remember how they start sacrificing people so they can teach evil werewolves like yourself a lesson about life?”

“She’s not a darach, but neither is she a virtuous white oak on a mission of justice.”

“There’s at least one person in this car deserving of a big helping of justice and I’m pretty sure it’s not me.”

“You give yourself so little credit.” Peter examines his claws as though he’s considering getting them professionally manicured. “You were far from the guiding moral star of the Scott McCall puppy brigade. As I recall, you’ve certainly had your _moments._ ”

Stiles doesn’t say another word, just keeps his hands tight on the wheel, eyes straight ahead.

+

His studio is a massive three hundred square feet with the kitchenette wedged next to the bathroom, crates for shelving, and a futon couch that doubles as a bed.

“This is pitiful even for a college freshmen,” Peter comments, judgemental gaze sweeping across the cramped space, from the ramen cups piling up by the stove to the mess of textbooks and printouts spilling over the coffee table onto the floor.

“I’d ask you to sit but I don’t want my couch slash bed to be contaminated with _sleeze._ ” Stiles kicks a pair of dirty jeans out of the way as he kneels to pull out the engraved wooden case from under the futon frame. Deaton gifted it to him as a graduation gift—portable vials of salts, blessed grave dirt, crushed herbs and roots, a notebook filled with rune charms and incantation scripts. “To keep you safe,” Deaton had said, “on your journeys.”

Except now he’s using his goodie box along with his admittedly still limited knowledge and novice abilities to enable Peter Hale’s continued nefarious existence. Deaton would be so thrilled.

From inside the case, Stiles retrieves a smaller dagger; Peter’s gaze locks on him, a silent warning in his cold stare, and Stiles just rolls his eyes, puts the point of the blade to his index finger and cuts, drawing blood.

“Unbutton your shirt,” he tells Peter flatly.

Peter’s eyebrows arch into his hairline and Stiles wants to reach out and slap them right off his forehead. “Don’t be gross. I need to see what I’m dealing with.”

Peter quirks his mouth like he has the perfect retort ready to deliver, but changes his mind and files it away for a better occasion. He plucks open the buttons of his shirt and bares his chest.

Stiles hesitates, then inhales deeply. He reaches up and carefully traces a reveal symbol over Peter’s heart with the blood, presses his hand over it, exhales, and shuts his eyes.

It starts as a faint pulse, dull vibrations in his palm. He breathes, concentrates, breathes, and the thrumming grows strong and vibrant and he feels it, thick chains of energy tethered around Peter’s dark core. The distorted wolf inside is ripping at its own limbs, desperate, trapped.

Stiles pulls his hand away and steps back. “Nope,” he shakes his head, “can’t do it. That barrier spell is waaay too intense for me.”

“You haven’t _tried_ yet,” Peter says, lip curling over teeth.

“You do realize I’m not enrolled at Hogwarts majoring in sorcery, right? I’m not a goddamn wizard.”

“I’ve seen you pull off some very impressive things, I’m sure you’ve only improved since then,” Peter says sweetly.

“Don’t pep talk me.” Stiles makes a face.

“Alright,” Peter wipes at the blood on his chest with his thumb, brings it to his mouth and sucks on it thoughtfully, “if you don’t at least make an attempt, I will shatter your shins and you’ll do it on your knees. How’s that?”

Stiles’ face grows even more grimaced. “...The best I can try to do is open a temporary crack in the barrier for you to possibly, _possibly_ squeeze through.”

“A crack is all I need,” Peter says, closing his shirt slowly, sliding each button into place.

“Take me to the barrier’s edge,” Stiles says, defeated. “Preferably a location where there won’t be people walking by while I’m mid-hocus pocus.”

Peter pushes the last button through and straightens his collar. “I know exactly where to go.”

+

The wind cuts even harder down by the harbor, and Stiles can’t stop shivering, bones limp and disjointed, collapsed in an exhausted heap on the dock. Peter’s only wearing a thin dress shirt under his coat and seems completely impervious to the chill.

“Get up,” Peter orders, “try again.”

Stiles cups his hands over his face and blow air on his numb fingers. “If it didn’t work the first five times, what makes you think chances of success will be higher now that I have zero energy and can’t feel my face?”

“I said _try again._ ”

Peter’s voice morphs the command into something dark and hideous, and Stiles scrambles to his feet. He won’t hesitate to trade verbal barbs, but he’ll never let himself forget what Peter Hale is capable of. Never again.

He centers his focus, reaches in deep and grasps at the dying embers of the spark, converges all of his intent and will power into a single needlepoint and sends it forward. Break. Break. Break. Come on, _break._

“Now!” Stiles shouts, and he hears footsteps sprinting past him as Peter charges full speed at the barrier. His body slams up against the invisible veil, and once again, the force hurls him through the air and into the ground.

Stiles’ legs give out and he slumps down just as Peter props himself up onto his elbows, dust on his face, eyes violent and flashing.

“Don’t give me that look,” Stiles’ breath is ragged, “I _told_ you it’s too strong, so if you’re going to maim me just go ahead and—”

“Leaving so soon, Peter?” a female voice interrupts.

Stiles looks up and sees a thin-faced blond woman strolling casually towards them. Leather jacket, check. Leather stiletto boots, check. This must be the power behind the barrier, miss ‘unsavory individual’.

“Did you run out of attractions to visit?” the woman asks, heels clicking to a stop, hand on her hip. “Ooh, what about the Freedom Trail?” Her curved mouth is painted a deep plum red.

Peter’s expression is placid as he draws himself to his feet, squaring his shoulders. It took Stiles halfway through Junior year to realize that Peter is actually a bit shorter than him.

“I’ve done it twice, actually,” Peter says.

“And the Museum of Fine Art? See anything you like in there?” A male voice this time, closing in from the other side. Also clad in black leather, the man doesn’t even bother to shield his wolf features, red-ringed irises, fangs protruding from his predatory smile.

One of these days, Stiles will write an in-depth analysis examining the supernatural world and its obsession with leather. The night just went from bad to worse to werewolf turf wars, and Stiles attempts to shuffle backwards away from what he predicts is about to become a three-way battle thunderdome.

This is the exact moment they notice Stiles.

“How adorable,” the woman coos. “Look Isaiah, he found himself a baby emissary. What day care center did you steal him from, Peter?”

Stiles points to himself in the universal ‘who, me?’ gesture. “No, oh no,” he laughs nervously, “I’m not his emissary. I’m not his _anything_. I’m being held hostage and forced to do this against my will, he threatened to kill my friend if I didn’t comply.”

“I ‘threatened’ to have coffee with her,” Peter clarifies with a roll of his eyes.

“I know what ‘coffee’ means!” Stiles makes aggressive air quotes with his fingers.

“How do you know that ‘coffee’ didn’t mean I planned to seduce her away as punishment for your refusal?”

“Because you also said you’d break my legs, you shit!” Stiles yells.

“Well,” the blonde woman crosses her arms with a squeak of leather, “this is all _very_ entertaining. But let’s talk business, shall we? We gave you until the next full moon, now why would you try to run, Peter?”

“You really should switch to a different shade of lipstick, Veronica,” Peter scowls. “It doesn’t project sultry temptress as much as it does collagen overdose.”

“Mr. Vantine doesn’t appreciate it when people take advantage of his generosity,” she sneers, dropping the sing-song tone, “you’ve just upped the stakes.”

“I’ve already cashed out,” Peter snarls, claws shooting out.

Yup, it’s about to go down. Stiles doesn’t want to wait around one more second, he turns and bolts. Before he can get five strides into his escape, a giant hand grips him by the back of his jacket, yanks him into a headlock, and Stiles is dragged kicking and struggling back to Veronica.

“Look at that face,” she leans in and pinches at Stiles’ cheek, “like a foxy little cherub.” She draws a lacquered nail down Stiles’ throat. “You wouldn’t mind if we took one of his arms for collateral, would you?”

“Be my guest,” Peter spreads his hands out hospitably.

Stiles’ eyes bulge, from anger or lack of air he can’t tell. “You mother fu—!!” The arm around his neck tightens, crushing his windpipe, and Stiles chokes on the curse. He has no energy left to cast, no physical strength left to fight.

While her werewolf accomplice casually squeezes the life out of Stiles, the emissary purses her lips in thought. “Dismemberment is not very creative, is it?”

She smiles before pressing a hand against Stiles’ chest. “Want to see a neat trick?”

Being trapped in a sleeper hold is making it difficult for Stiles to shake his head in objection, and all he can do is open his eyes wider when he feels the energy surging from her palm straight through his ribcage. It feels like he’s being electrified, like his heart is going to explode.

Across the way, Peter is gripping at his own chest, face twisted in an ugly snarl. “You bitch, what did you do!?”

She smiles victoriously, pulls a knife from her jacket, and stabs Stiles hard in the gut.

+

_“If you say it again, I swear to god—!”_

_It’s the third time they’ve fought about it this week._

_“I don’t want you doing it,” Derek shouts in his face. “It’s too dangerous, what don’t you understand?!”_

+

He’s on the ground. He can tell because there’s dirt in his mouth. He coughs, and blood comes out in the spittle. Stiles tries to turn his head, tries to look, but he can’t see much, can only hear sounds, animal and vicious. Then, he’s being pulled up and dragged again.

It really was too much to hope that he could pretend to live a normal life for just a little while.

+

He blinks and he’s in the jeep, slumped against the passenger door, staring down at his own lap. There’s blood all over his pants and on the seat.

“What…” Stiles croaks out.

“Hospital—” Peter’s in the driver’s seat, talking at him. He’s bleeding too. “You tell them you got stabbed in an attempted robbery—”

“This is not okay,” Stiles mutters, “nothing about this is okay.”

He closes his eyes again.

+

“You’re very lucky no vital organs were hit, Mr. Stilinski,” the doctor tells him.

“Yup, that’s me,” Stiles says. “Lucky.”

He’s discharged without much hassle, so he supposes it could have been worse. He doesn’t call anyone to pick him up, too tired to tell more lies, just takes a cab home with fresh stitches in his belly. He’s never been more grateful that his shitty building has a functioning elevator.

He leaves his bloody clothes in the bathroom, takes the pain killers, and waddles over to collapse onto the couch to try and forget the past twenty-four hours ever happened. Not five seconds after he lies down, there’s a knock at the door. “Why, god?” Stiles groans miserably as he struggles to pull himself upright again.

Stiles opens the door, and Peter is standing in the hall holding a giant inflatable ‘get well soon’ SpongeBob balloon, the kind most often found floating in the children’s ward.

“I cleaned the blood off your car seats,” Peter says, as if it makes up for everything.

Stiles swings the door shut in his face.

“Now, now.” Peter’s palm stops the door from latching, and he pushes it open again. “Don’t be like that.”

“Go away,” Stiles says. “Go away now.”

“I have some rather pertinent information you should know regarding our little outing last night.”

Stiles stares at him blankly, then turns and lumbers back towards the couch.

“By the way,” Peter steps in and shuts the door behind him, “I wasn’t actually going to let them hurt you.”

“Right,” Stiles sinks back down onto the lumpy futon, “you were just going to let them stab me a little.”

“Well, not hurt you _fatally,_ ” Peter concedes with a shrug. “I extracted you safely and got you medical attention in time, didn’t I?”

“Thank you, Peter, for rescuing me from the life-threatening situation you forced me into in the first place.” He watches Peter tie the stupid balloon to his doorknob. “... could have at least gotten me a Spider Man one.”

“It’s a sympathy curse,” Peter says, turning around.

“A what now?”

“What Veronica did. I’ve accrued quite a bit of power this past year, let’s just say it’s somewhat difficult for her to inflict physical damage on me.”

He can tell Peter wants to brag, wants to regale Stiles with the tale of how he became re-alphafied, wants to tell Stiles all about the fancy new powers that he likely had to sell whatever shreds of his soul he had left for— but Stiles isn’t going to give him the satisfaction of asking. “So?”

“So, she created an external weakness she could target.” Peter lifts the hem of his shirt. His abdomen is bandaged, a large patch of gauze covering part of his stomach— the exact same spot as Stiles’ stab wound. Peter sighs dramatically, and Stiles can only assume Peter is trying to downplay his dismay. “Your pain is my pain. I won’t heal until you do.”

“What kind of horcrux bullshit is this?” Stiles stares incredulously.

“The extremely inconvenient kind,” Peter replies. He folds his hands out as if he’s about to make a sales pitch. “What happened is regrettable, and trust me when I say I had no intention of involving you on _quite_ this level.”

“Trust? Ha!” Stiles winces when the hard ‘H’ sound tugs on his torn muscles. For a brief second he thinks he sees Peter wincing, too.

“I’m sure you understand now that it’s not a good idea for us to be separated,” Peter continues, “considering there’s a sizable chance she might show up and break your legs in an attempt to cripple me.”

“Wait. Fucking _wait._ ” Stiles holds up a hand and makes the ‘stop’ motion. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying or am I just really high right now?”

“Until we can sever the link between us, it’s best I stay close to you,” Peter says, matter-of-fact.

“Stay? Close? _You!?_ ”

“Yes, Stiles, those are all words that I’ve said.”

“Where exactly are you supposed to stay?” Stiles spreads his arms out and gestures around them, “I don’t even have any _rooms!_ ”

“Or,” the futon dips as Peter lowers his weight onto it, sitting down next to Stiles. He reaches over and takes a hold of Stiles’ wrist—the same one he had in his clutches years ago—and lifts it to his mouth. “There is a second, easier, and much more palatable option…”

Peter’s breath is hot on his skin, and Stiles’ chest tightens, his throat closing up. He swallows once, then again, and hardens his expression into a glare.

“Go ahead.” He locks eyes with Peter, doesn’t blink, doesn’t pull his hand back, and curls his fingers into a defiant fist. “Let’s see what happens. My pain is your pain, right? So my death is your death. You want to take that risk?”

Peter’s mouth pulls into a tight, straight line. They stare each other down, silent and unmoving as statues. After a minute long standoff, Peter sits back.

“Fine.” He lets go of Stiles’ arm, and Stiles doesn’t bother to mask his relief. “Call your mentor, call Scott, whatever you need to do. Until then...” Peter snatches up the remote control, turns on the television, and starts flipping through the channels.

“This isn’t happening,” Stiles says and reaches for more percocets.

+

“ _What,_ ” Scott says.

“Yup,” Stiles says.

“Peter Hale.”

“Yup.”

“So you’re like, _linked together?_ ”

“I’ve explained it three times, Scott, I’m not doing it again, yes, it’s like Ethan and Aiden without the gross spine merging, I need help, preferably immediately. This is me sounding the alarm, SOS, code fucking red.”

“I’ll talk to Deaton about it right away.”

“Scott McCall, are you delegating away my emergency?” Stiles glares at the tiles on his bathroom floor. Scott’s voice keeps cutting in and out, Stiles can tell he’s deep in the preserve, and also completely distracted.

“You know I don’t know anything about curses,” Scott says, a little helplessly. “Things are just… things are not great right now, Stiles, I’m not going to lie. The Oregon meeting didn’t go as well as we hoped, they aren’t willing to help us. But I’ll figure something out with Deaton as soon as I can, you hang in there. Tell Peter that if he touches one hair on your head I will rain down vengeance on him like a vengeance typhoon.”

“He’s got a whole club of people who want him dead, and guess what, he’s especially easy to kill at the moment when all his enemies have to do is kill me. I’m very soft and killable, Scott.”

“What exactly is he doing?” Scott asks, confused. “Just squatting in your apartment waiting for you to solve all his problems?”

“Being a space-hogging nuisance and watching a hundred goddamn episodes of House Hunters, I don’t know how much longer I can take this.”

“I’ll take care of this for you, I _promise._ ”

When Scott dials up that earnest sincerity, it’s impossible for Stiles to stay upset at him. “You handle your crisis first,” Stiles sighs, “and be careful. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t.”

“You know it, buddy.”

He hangs up with another sigh, runs his fingers through his hair, and pushes out of the bathroom. Peter is where he left him, on the couch, hands folded neatly in his lap.

“Scott says he’ll talk to Deaton,” Stiles says flatly.

“I heard. Heard the threat, too,” Peter remarks cooly, and cocks his head. “You didn’t tell him about your injury.”

Stiles ignores that particular observation. “I’m tired, I want to sleep.”

“I’m not stopping you.”

“You’re _in my bed._ ”

His how-much-nonsense-can-I-sustain-before-I-have-a-meltdown meter is nearly at full capacity, and it makes Stiles want to scream. “Get off your ass and pull the frame down,” he orders, “you want to heal, you have to let _me_ heal.”

Peter raises an eyebrow. Stiles crosses his arms and glares and glares until Peter stands, adjusting the frame and flattening the futon from a sofa into a mattress.

“That’s right,” Stiles says vindictively. “My room, my rules. Now make yourself useful and go get me a glass of water.”

He lowers himself onto the futon, lays out flat on his back, and pulls the blanket completely over his head. Before Peter returns with the water, Stiles is already out cold.

+

He’s running, running through the dark, shadows stretching out in every direction.

Behind him, he hears gnashing teeth, claws on metal.

He can’t run fast enough. He can never run fast enough.

The claws sink into his back. Stiles screams.

+

“Stiles. _Stiles._ ”

He peels open his eyes, and Peter’s expressionless face is hovering over him. He’s trembling, covered in sweat.

“You’re burning a fever, we need to get you out of these layers.”

The blanket is being pulled away from him and Stiles struggles to clutch onto it. “No, cold…” Stiles groans weakly, curling in on himself when his body is exposed to the air. Strong hands are moving over him, tugging at his clothes and rearranging his limbs.

“Drink.”

A glass is put up to his mouth, and he sips at the water deliriously. There’s a damp towel sponging down his skin, and it feels so good against his overheated forehead. Stiles closes his eyes, and drifts off.

+

He’s running again, racing as fast as his legs can carry him. Faster, faster, have to go _faster._

He’s tired, so tired, but he can’t stop, the sound of claws are right behind him, the hungry teeth are snapping, and he feels himself tripping, falling forward.

He doesn’t crash.

The dark shadows dissipate, and suddenly there’s only warmth. He hovers, listening, waiting. He can’t hear the teeth anymore.

He lies back, stretches all of his limbs out, and finally, at long last, he rests.

+

He wakes up feeling like he’s floating inside a pleasant bath, and for a second Stiles refuses to open his eyes even though his senses are already alive and processing. Anything to keep this feeling going just a little longer. He shifts and lets out a content sigh. Since when did his pillow become so comfortable?

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

The rhythmic sound beats steady in his ears. Since when did his pillow have a _pulse?_

_Ba-dump, ba-dump, ba-dump._

Stiles opens his eyes and sees— black pelt. A long brush of tail. Large snout. Massive paws. His hand is curled in against the animal’s flank, fingers gripping the dark tufts of fur.

“Oh my _god!_ ” Stiles scrambles back, legs kicking, arms flailing. There is most definitely a wolf in his bed. The commotion wakens it and it lifts its head, blinking lazily at Stiles.

“...Peter?” Stiles ventures skeptically. “Is that you?”

The wolf opens its jaws and yawns, tongue lolling out past its fangs. It puts its head back down onto the mattress, and closes its eyes again.

Stiles half-crawls, half-rolls off of the mattress, and escapes into the bathroom.

+

When Stiles warily re-enters the studio, the wolf is gone, and the bed has been shifted back into a sofa. Peter is fully dressed and sitting with one arm thrown over the back of the seat, the other flipping through a newspaper. “I got coffee,” he points to the to-go cups in front of him on the table, “while you were having a panic attack in the bathroom.”

“What the fuck, Peter!”

Peter glances up, unconcerned by Stiles’ fit of righteous rage. “You were being very unpleasant last night, tossing and shouting. At one point I thought you were going to choke on your tongue.”

“So, what, you decided to turn into a wolf, climb into my bed, and smother me?” Stiles’ hands cycle wildly in the air.

“It helped, didn’t it? Your breathing and heart rate evened out almost immediately.”

“That’s not the point!” Stiles shouts. He stomps over to his tiny closet, pulls out the extra set of sheets, brings them over to the corner by the window and dumps them onto the floor.

“There. That’s your bed. You sleep there!” Stiles points to the pile.

Peter gives him a completely unimpressed stare, and goes back to reading the paper.

+

Stiles sits in his car, and hits the ‘call’ button. There’s no answer, and he’s sent straight to voicemail.

“Hey, it’s me.”

He hears the fake cheer in his own voice and he wants to hang up right then. He takes a breath and forces himself to keep going.

“I’m sure Scott’s already told you. So. Yeah. Deaton’s given me a bunch of counter curses to try, but nothing’s worked yet, so we’re kind of just… stuck with each other. It’s been loads of fun. And in case you were wondering, yes, your uncle’s still an asshole. I hope things aren’t too insane back home. Boston’s really cold. Right. Okay. ...That’s it. Bye.”

He hangs up, feeling foolish and miserable. What was even the point of that call?

+

Peter makes him chicken noodle soup.

_Peter Hale_ makes him _chicken noodle soup_. And Stiles can’t stop shoveling it into his mouth.

“Oh my god, this is amazing,” he gasps between spoonfuls. “You should eat too,” he says to Peter, “you look like shit.”

“I do so appreciate your honest concern,” Peter says, tapping away on Stiles’ laptop.

“What exactly did you do to that Veronica, anyways? Did you knock her up and refuse to pay child support?”

“Don’t worry your pretty little head over it,” Peter waves a hand as if to dismiss all of Stiles’ inane theories. “You just focus on healing.”

“Libby would never go out with you, by the way,” Stiles says, chewing with his mouth open.

“You say that like you have any idea what her preferences are,” Peter scoffs. “You’ve only known her for two weeks.”

“Yeah, well—” Stiles frowns. “Wait a minute. You said you’ve only been following me for a few days!”

“More soup?” Peter offers with a smile.

+

He checks his phone for missed calls or texts.

There’s nothing.

+

Libby comes to visit him.

“Wow, Stiles... that’s a _really_ big dog....”

“It’s just temporary,” Stiles explains, “they were going to put him down, he’s old and cranky and doesn’t get along with any of the other puppies at the pound… I felt sorry for him.”

Libby reaches out a hand to pet him, and the ‘dog’ snaps at her.

“Peter! Bad dog!” Stiles admonishes. “Go to your corner!”

Libby smiles, snaking her arms around Stiles’ neck. “You have such a big heart.” She leans up to kiss him, and Stiles kisses back enthusiastically. They fumble their way towards the futon, hands sliding beneath clothing, searching for skin.

Libby breaks the kiss suddenly with a horrified gasp, “Stiles, he’s eating my purse!”

“No, Peter!” Stiles shouts. “Bad dog!!”

+

“What the _fuck!?_ ” Stiles yells after Libby leaves with a ruined purse.

Peter has the audacity to look offended. “You think I want to watch two college kids suck face and hump on a futon? Do that when I’m not in the same room, please.”

“This must be what jail is like,” Stiles groans with abject terror. “This is jail. I’m in jail, and you are the worst cellmate in the universe.”

“If we’re going to go with that particular metaphor, I promise you, things could be a lot worse.” Peter gives him a loaded glance.

“Don’t make me put a muzzle and leash on you.” Stiles jabs a finger at Peter’s nose.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? I’ve seen your browser history,” Peter says in a lascivious tone, and snaps his jaws at Stiles’ finger. Stiles sputters, struggles for a retort, and comes up short.

He flees to the bathroom and locks himself in there for an hour.

+

Peter leaves during the day sometimes, but never for very long. Usually, he comes back with groceries.

He makes dinner every night.

+

Stiles goes back to class. He can’t concentrate on a single thing. He doesn’t see Peter when he glances out the windows of the lecture halls, doesn’t see him when he’s walking across the campus grounds, but he knows Peter is out there. Watching.

Deaton calls to check in each night, and they try method after method, counter-curse after counter-curse.

Nothing works.

“Short ribs for dinner?” Peter asks after another failed attempt, the both of them sitting on the floor, frustrated.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs, “sounds good.”

+

Stiles doesn’t want to admit that he’s been sleeping better with a massive animal curled up next to him. Doesn’t want to admit that the rhythmic heartbeat and warm fur against his side has vanquished his harrowing dreams for the first time in years.

+

They’re in the middle of dinner, and Stiles is looking at his phone.

“If he hasn’t called you by now, he’s not going to,” Peter says without looking up, engrossed in his pasta. “Stop checking ten times an hour. It’s sad and untoward.”

It’s just another jab, just another insult, no worse than what usually comes out of Peter’s mouth. It’s what they do; cut at each other with words, fencing with wit. It’s just one more bit of weight, and suddenly Stiles is collapsing under the mounting pressure of the past few weeks, knees buckling, feet losing purchase. There’s no one to hold him up, no safety net to fall against.

“I _am_ sad!” Stiles yells at him. “I’m sad all the fucking time! Every minute I’m awake it hurts and I want it to stop.”

Peter slowly lifts his eyes from his plate.

“I just want it to stop...” Stiles drops his face into his hands.

There’s a soft ‘clink’ as Peter set his fork down. The room is quiet save for Stiles’ harsh breathing as he tries to gather himself back together.

“It won’t stop. And it’ll always hurt,” Peter tells him, voice low and even. “But you’ll move on. This time next year, you’ll be sad and hurt over someone else. And then someone else after that. That’s how it works.”

“What do you know,” Stiles mumbles into his hands, “you don't give a shit about anyone but yourself.”

“I know that Derek is a fool, and he always will be,” Peter says. “I know that he’ll spend his entire life repeating the same mistakes and wondering why the things he wants won’t happen. I know that you’re more than that. You’re _better_ than that. And that’s why you outgrew him.”

Stiles lowers his hands from his face, brows knitting tightly together.

“He’s forever stunted. You’ve only just begun.” Peter reaches out, fingers touching down lightly against Stiles’ cheek. “So full of potential.”

Peter’s moving towards him, closer and closer, and Stiles is frozen, locked in place, anchored by the lull of Peter’s voice, the natural blue of his eyes. Peter moves in until their noses nearly brush, and Stiles can feel the puffs of his whispering breath.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever offered the bite to, you know...”

Peter cups Stiles’ face, leans in until there’s no more distance separating them, and kisses Stiles.

Everything goes silent. The manic emotions swarming inside his chest, the anxious voices rambling in his head. Everything shuts down.

Blank, void, still.

Stiles doesn’t know how long it’s been before he pulls back, stunned. Peter is blinking languidly at him, face unreadable. They stare wordlessly at each, just breathing and blinking. Stiles pulls away further, rising to his feet. He starts to back up, taking slow, gradual steps towards the door.

“Stiles.” Peter stands, shoulders tense. “You can’t leave. The full moon is almost here. They’ll be out looking for me. For _you._ ”

Stiles reaches a hand into his pocket and pulls out a pouch of mountain ash. Peter’s eyes widen in alarm as Stiles throws it forward. The ash flies out, forming around Peter’s feet, trapping him in a perfect circle.

Peter’s eyes flash red, fangs filling his mouth, “Wait—!”

Stiles stumbles out of the apartment, slamming the door shut. Behind it, he hears Peter roaring his name.

+

He leaves the building and heads down the street, shoving his way past people, barreling through crosswalks without looking. He doesn’t know where he’s going. The wound in his gut starts to burn. He keeps walking. He reaches a fumbling hand into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and dials.

Lydia answers on the second ring.

“Why?” The cold air feels like a stab to the lungs with each inhale. “Why can’t I just forget about him?”

He doesn’t need to say who; Lydia had watched Stiles shed bitter tears when he realized it was over.

“Because we always remember the people who hurt us the most,” Lydia says. “Are you okay, Stiles?”

He stops walking and turns to lean against the brick exterior of a pub. A group of drunk fraternity jocks amble past him, hollering loudly and making lewd gestures. He’s shivering; he didn’t have time to grab a jacket before he ran.

“You’re not okay,” Lydia says quietly.

He shakes his head and scrubs a hand over his face. “Do you think I outgrew him, and that’s why it fell apart?”

“Possibly,” her voice is soft, thoughtful. “You were dealing with a lot of heavy stuff, and he handled the situation, well, like he always did — very poorly.”

Stiles laughs, dry and joyless. “You still think about Jackson?”

“Sometimes,” she admits. “Like when he posts obnoxious facebook statuses referring to ‘difficult exes’. I really should just de-friend him.”

“That fucker,” Stiles says, offended on her behalf. “I’d kick his ass, you know, if I could. I can send a very strongly-worded email. Or spam his page with erectile dysfunction ads.”

“That’s very sweet and chivalrous of you.” Lydia’s laugh is genuine.

“Of course, anything for my—”

A muscled arm reaches around Stiles’ neck from behind, cutting him off. He chokes, phone falling from his hand, and is dragged into the alley behind the pub. Veronica’s bright lipsticked smile is the last thing he sees before blacking out.

Stiles’ phone lies abandoned on the sidewalk, Lydia’s voice calling out on the other line. “Stiles? Stiles?? Are you there? Hello?”

+

Stiles wakes up tied to a chair in what looks like an abandoned storage warehouse. Another topic to add to his expanding series: how the supernatural world never fails to find an abandoned structure in which to conduct their shady business.

“Rise and shine, cherub,” Veronica greets him cheerily, werewolf companion standing menacingly over her shoulder.

Stiles’ head hurts, his stomach hurts, and he has a sinking suspicion that, soon, many other parts of him are also about to be hurt.

“You’ve been getting cozy with our friend Mr. Hale, haven’t you?” she asks. “Why don’t you tell us what you two have been up to?”

“Watching home improvement shows and talking about our feelings, mostly.” Stiles can’t help it, wisecracking is his default setting whenever he’s cornered.

Veronica reaches out and backhands Stiles across the face.

“Ow, fuck—!” Stiles curses loudly. He tongues at the bloody split in his lip and glares furiously, “What the hell do you people want anyways?!”

“Didn’t Peter tell you?” Veronica croons. “He owes some very powerful people a lot of money.”

Stiles blinks dumbly. “You two are… _debt collectors?_ ”

“Something like that,” she adjusts the heavy jewels adorning her hands. “Peter doesn’t seem to understand that the house always wins.”

“Oh my god!” Stiles shouts. “Don’t tell me this parade of bullshit is all because he owes gambling debts to the werewolf mafia!?”

“Everyone needs a hobby,” Peter’s voice says from up above.

Veronica and her partner look up just as arrows rain down on them, hitting the ground by their feet and exploding in flashes of light, forcing them to duck for cover and shield their eyes.

“Since we’re having ourselves a party,” Peter drops from the rafters with a thud, “I hope you don’t mind that I brought fireworks and some friends.”

There’s another thud as someone else lands next to Peter. “Actually, we’re not his friends. We’re Stiles’ friends.”

When his eyes readjust themselves after the flash assault, Stiles sees Scott grinning at him, eyes glowing a strong red, back straight with confidence. Stiles is so relieved he could cry.

“We have you surrounded and outnumbered,” Scott says, stepping forward towards Veronica. He points to the entrance where Isaac is standing guard, and the skylight where several armed hunters are moving into the building. “First things first. Remove that sympathy curse _right now_.”

Up in the rafters, Allison lowers her bow and winks at Stiles.

+

“I’m sorry it took me so long to get out here,” Scott says, cutting the ropes away from Stiles’ wrists and ankles while Allison and the local hunters outline cessation terms with Veronica. The second he’s free, Stiles tackles him, wrapping both arms around Scott’s neck and stubbornly ignores the painful protesting from his wound.

“You fucking asshole,” Stiles says, “you were just waiting till the last possible second so you could make that stupid action hero entrance, weren’t you?”

“Maybe.” Scott grins into Stiles’ shoulder, and Stiles retaliates by hugging Scott even tighter.

“You know, sometimes I wonder about those two,” Isaac mutters to Peter. When no derisive response came, Isaac turns to see that there’s no one standing next to him.

“...Oh,” Isaac says to the empty space. “Hey, guys, I think Peter ran off.”

Stiles steps back from Scott and looks from Isaac, to Allison, to the hunters, then back around the entire warehouse again. Peter is gone.

“Of course he did,” Scott sighs. “He knew I was going to kick his ass. Coward.”

“We’ve come to an agreement,” Allison walks back towards them, bow slung over her shoulder. “The local hunters made it clear that those two and their associates are not to set foot inside this territory again.”

“Hooray for diplomacy and no one dying,” Stiles cheers, “high fives all around.”

“You’ve barely been gone three months and you’ve already gotten yourself cursed, stabbed, and kidnapped.” Allison throws an arm around Stiles’ neck. “I’m impressed.”

“Admit it, you just missed us too much, didn’t you?” Scott loops his arm around from the other side, and Stiles insulates himself in their smiles.

“Alright, I confess,” Stiles sighs, “I totally staged everything so I could scam you all into flying out to see me.”

The three of them step in towards each other, and the circle is complete again, energy flowing from Scott to Allison to Stiles, binding and tangible.

It feels like going home.

+

It’s the strangest thing.

His apartment seems smaller now that there’s only him in it again. There’s a pot in the fridge with leftover pasta from the last meal Peter made.

Stiles heats it up in the microwave, and eats it while watching House Hunters.

+

It starts to snow two weeks into November. Stiles is sitting in the coffee shop at his usual spot in the corner where he can get the best view of Libby as she works the espresso machine.

He’s three chapters into his book when someone sits down at his table. Stiles glances up, and Peter is in the seat across from him, snowflakes dusting his hair and the slope of his shoulders. He hasn’t seen Peter since that night he escaped soundlessly out of the warehouse. Stiles looks back down and flips a page. “Whatever it is you’re about to say, the answer is no.”

“This is purely a social call,” Peter assures him, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “I wanted to apologize. Without the lynch mob breathing down my neck.”

Stiles lifts his head again and blinks at him expectantly. “I’m waiting.”

Peter heaves an exasperated sigh. “I apologize for making the past few weeks of your life... difficult.”

Why did you kiss me, Stiles wants to ask.

“Apology not accepted,” is what Stiles says.

Peter smiles at him with what almost looks like fondness, and stands. A strange feeling curls in the pit of Stiles’ stomach, and he immediately attributes it to the coffee acting up.

“One more thing,” Peter adds, making a show of adjusting his coat lapels, “thanks to your darling little pack, Boston is now essentially an asylum for me. I’ve decided that I actually quite like this city, after all.”

“No, you...” Stiles’ eyes grow round with disbelief, “you’re _staying here?!_ ”

Peter’s smile stretches all the way across his face. His teeth are impossibly white. “I’ll see you around, Stiles.” He gives a casual wave goodbye, and walks away from the table.

Long after Peter is gone, Stiles is still staring at the empty chair across from him, mouth hanging open. Outside, the snow starts to come down hard.

Someday, this will all be retroactively hilarious, Stiles consoles himself as he shakes out the very last pill in his bottle, and swallows it dry.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my lovely perfect scatteredmuse for betaing and staying up with me till the crack of dawn to cry about Peter Hale, gracias Ash for lending me Veronica, and kbgidget: we'll always have Boston!!
> 
>  
> 
> [Come chat at me, bros](http://hsuany.tumblr.com/)


End file.
